After Such Kindness (17 page)

‘Oh, thank you, Papa!’ And she lifts Benjamin’s face to hers and kisses him over and over. He grasps a strand of her fringe and seems to be considering what it is that is different about his sister’s looks today.

John has been very quiet during all the fuss. ‘I think I had better go,’ he says. ‘Clearly my outing with Daisy is forfeit for today and I doubt I could do better than she has done in calming Benjamin. I hope it is nothing serious, Daniel. I myself have a horror of fever and am no good about the sickbed.’

I could see that he was anxious to depart. ‘Yes, John, please feel free to go.’

‘Please send word if there is any development. I will come myself tomorrow to see if there is anything I can do. Take care of your brother, Daisy!’ And he is gone.

‘Is that the gentleman as saved him from drowning?’ asks Mrs McQueen.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘The very same.’

‘They say that the person you save will do you a bad turn later on in life.’

‘You mean Benjy will do a bad turn to Mr Jameson?’ asks Daisy in horror.

I am furious with the woman. ‘I believe that is an old seaman’s tale, Mrs McQueen, and I don’t countenance such superstition in this house. Benjamin will do nothing bad to Mr Jameson, either now or later.’

Daisy is aghast. ‘But I opened my parasol in the house, Papa – and look what happened that day!’

‘What happened that day was entirely due to Nettie’s lack of supervision.’ My heart recoils to think that the child may have been blaming herself all this time. ‘And it was God’s grace that John Jameson was among us that day, and his quick action was directed from Above.’

Daisy doesn’t look at me as she busies herself diverting her brother with the ribbons on her hat, but says, ‘Why was it Nettie’s fault that Benjy fell in, but God’s grace that he was saved?’

I hesitate.

‘Fie, child!’ Mrs McQueen interposes. ‘You have to go by what’s in the Bible. You, of all children, should know that.’

I ignore her, and address Daisy. ‘We know it was God’s grace because Benjamin being saved was a good thing, and all good things come from God.’

‘But why did God allow him to fall in the first place?’ She still doesn’t look at me.

Why indeed? Why is there death and accident and sickness and misery and unbelief? If God loves us, why do we not all dwell perpetually in the Garden of Eden in perfect bliss and naked innocence? Why did God let ugly Sin slip in and damn us for ever? If God is both omnipotent and good, we can only hope there is a larger purpose in His permitting the suffering we see around us; that the temptations and deprivations of this life are there to strengthen us and make us fitter for Heaven. I do not believe it, though. Like Benjamin, I am slipping into dark water, but in my case, there is no one to haul me up. I want to cry out in anguish, but I can’t: Daisy is waiting for her answer. I call up the familiar words. ‘We fall because of our own actions, my dear, the sin that is born in us and stalks us day and night throughout our lives. But we are saved by the love of Christ.’

‘Is everyone saved?’ She gives me the most transparent of looks and I can hardly bear to hold her gaze.

‘Everyone who has faith,’ I say.

She nods as if she is satisfied and, in her satisfaction, I gain a kind of peace. The child is good for me. She takes me back to a better time. If I take her spiritual education in hand, she may indeed save my soul.

Every time I see Daisy, I feel twenty years younger and twenty-five years happier. She has only to walk towards me and I am back in the golden time of my own childhood; a time when the dull concerns and expectations of the adult world did not impinge; when choices were simple, when learning was easy and faith ran through my body as easily as my own blood. Of course, it is the perverse way of things that none of us appreciates our happiness until it is taken away. Had I known then what I know now, and had I had it in my power to stop the clock once I had arrived at the age of fourteen, I would have done so without a second thought. Childhood, as I had experienced it up to that time, was complete enchantment. Manhood, as it came rushing upon me, seemed a dreadful, tragic joke.

I’d been a good-looking boy – indeed I’d often been mistaken for a girl; but as soon as I had entered the adolescent state, I’d endured a sad falling-off in my good looks. Overnight, it seemed, the top of my head set sail for the ceiling and my neck had to stretch up after it. My feet suddenly seemed a long way down and my hands became awkward appendages that seemed to have lost connection with my arms, so that the simplest of tasks (like putting on a waistcoat or buttoning my boots) made me into a bumbling idiot. My hair lost its softness and became lank and straggling, and my voice was not to be relied upon, which (added to the stammer that already afflicted me) made me frequently prefer not to speak at all. I could hardly believe what was happening; I felt as though I were no longer myself. ‘You are just growing, dear,’ said my mother when I complained of the changes. ‘You’ll be a fine young man in no time.’ But I did not feel fine. I felt clumsy and ugly and ridiculous. If that was what growing up was all about, I wanted none of it.

And then, one day, to my absolute horror, I found that I had hair in places where no hair had been before. I cannot say what dread and shame I suffered at this discovery. I felt that I had become a kind of Caliban – half-man, half-beast – and wondered what I had done to be so afflicted. I fell to my prayers with increased fervour, asking forgiveness day and night. But my body continued to change in ever more disgusting ways – and I feared that I might be eternally cast out from God’s love. And then, as if all these torments were not sufficient, I became aware, for the first time in my life, of my own odour. However rigorously I washed myself, it was never enough, and I was forced to change my small complement of shirts as often as three times a week. Washday could never come quick enough and, in my eagerness to don fresh linen, I was often guilty of wearing it unaired, fearful that otherwise all might sense the smell of growing boy. I began to avoid anything that might bring me in contact with those I did not know, withdrawing from simple handshakes and eschewing physical closeness in any form, even shrinking a little from the embraces of my parents. Parish tea parties were anathema, particularly if I were given a seat near the fire; and even in church I hesitated to raise my eyes in case they encountered someone to whom I should be obliged to speak later. Old ladies, I found, were the very devil to avoid, and every Sunday, at Morning Service, I spent much of the time I should have been attending to my prayers working out ways to exit the congregation before they had time to waylay me.

At that time, my father was my sole teacher, and we had thoroughly enjoyed the many hours we spent together with our books, breaking off only if he needed to attend to his parish duties or reprimand the little ones if they were careering about too loudly in the flagstoned passage outside. And once we had completed our set tasks in algebra and geometry and translated the appropriate pages of Latin and Greek, he simply followed his preference as to what we would study next. He was not by instinct a sedentary man – and by no means a sedentary teacher – and almost every day we set forth on a voyage of exploration in the fields and lanes of the parish, examining flowers in the hedgerows, bending to observe fish in the streams, finding birds’ nests, capturing butterflies and moths, sketching the shapes of clouds, and generally watching the unending panorama of the seasons. He particularly liked reciting passages from the
Christian Year
and relating it to what we could see from our own vantage-points on high ground. ‘All this, John!’ he would say, turning in a great circle with his stick upraised. ‘All this shows us the might and power of the Creator! Does your heart not leap up when you behold such grandeur?’

‘Yes, Father,’ I would say. I often tried to reproduce, with my pencil and watercolours, the clouds and the hills, and the distant river flowing down to the sea; but when it came to finding the words to describe the scene, my mind would instantly come up with some irreverent line about tea trays in the sky, or turtles singing at twilight. I never spoke the lines aloud, of course. It was not that my father was a solemn man – indeed he often made play with words, saying every Sunday lunchtime, ‘Mary-Ann, where’s the boast reef?’ or ‘Why have custard when you can have mustard?’ and he’d always written comic sentences in the margins of my work to lighten the task in hand – but God’s creation was not a subject to be jested about.

But about a month before my fourteenth birthday, when we were about to set out on one of our expeditions, my father laid his hand on my shoulder (which was already almost of a height with his own) and said that I was so far outstripping him in my skill in philosophy and mathematics that I needed a better tutor than he. ‘You are also too much among women,’ he said. ‘You need to experience the rougher habits of young men if you are to succeed in life. You have had a gentle upbringing in this house – and one that I approve of. But the generality of men in this world will come to judge you far harder than I, and certainly more than your sisters or your mother do.’

He thought I was in danger of becoming a milksop whereas I was afraid of the opposite; that the turmoil of passions within me might break out at any time. My peaceful child-body was no more. In its place, a loathsome, clammy, hirsute creature, which began to intrude itself on me at the very time I hated it most. But I would not submit to it. I prayed even harder, and spent even longer at my books, where I found the rigours of mathematics helped free my mind from vile alternatives. In between times I helped my mother and sisters as always, reading with them, making up spelling games, checking their arithmetic, and devising poems and puzzles that amused us for hours. I invented a folding pin-holder for Mary and a little bird-feeder for Ruth’s canary. I never passed a moment in idleness, and exhausted my body by giving endless piggy-back rides along the passageway to the kitchen, playing numerous games of skittles in the dining room with the rug rolled back, turning skipping ropes on the grass for what seemed like an eternity, and hopping in the hopscotch chalked out in the kitchen yard (where I, with my long legs, was always pronounced the victor). As ever, I was looked to as the arbiter in my sisters’ petty disagreements, and was required to compensate the injured parties with kisses and sweetmeats. In those two months before I was sent away, anticipating the loss of my dearest company, I felt most strongly the true wonder of being a brother – and so beloved a brother, too. When I looked at my sisters playing so trustingly with each other and approaching me with such sweet confidence, putting their chubby arms around me or lifting their faces to be kissed, I could not imagine how any gross and putrid thoughts could ever cross their innocent minds. Their company was my only consolation, and the sole means by which my inner demons could be subdued.

But inevitably the day came when my father told me to prepare my books and belongings, as my place at boarding school had been secured. Milburn House was at the other end of the county and had a good reputation for educating the sons of clergymen, but I was in dread of what awaited me. I knew remarkably little of other boys. I had always been somewhat shunned as a playfellow by the sons of the parish in spite of our being obliged to sit together in the choir every Sunday and say our catechism in unison once a week. They were all robust, red-faced Cheshire boys who seemed to find it hard to stay still for more than five minutes, and had funds of catapults, stones and horse chestnuts in their pockets which they brought out to admire at low points during the service and always covered up when they saw me look – fearful, no doubt, that I would tell tales. My only triumph with them had been when I played the part of St George in a Christmas mummer play and added comic dialogue of my own to make it more amusing. For a few brief days I was popular. But I never pursued my advantage or sought to ingratiate myself. I did not need friendship outside the family. I had all the companionship I wanted within it.

So it was with a heavy heart that I accompanied my father on the stagecoach to Chester, whence we were to travel on to Milburn. When I saw the diminishing sight of my mother and sisters as they waved us off at the parsonage gate, I wished that I could weep half as openly as they; but I knew Father would see it as confirming my milksop ways, so I simply stared out of the window feeling like the prince in the fairy tale who had iron bands placed about his heart.

In Chester we were met at the Feathers by a servant in a pony and trap, and within another half-hour we had arrived at our destination: a pleasant brick house with very tall and elaborate chimneys. I remember thinking that they were not the kind of chimneys you would want to get stuck in if you were a chimney sweep – or anyone else for that matter. The headmaster, Dr Lloyd, to whom I was introduced in a small drawing room with an exceedingly large fire, reminded me of a stork, and throughout our conversation I half expected him to fly up the flue and make a nest at the top. He was kindly enough as he explained the rules, but everything he said had to do with ‘boys’ and ‘masters’ and I felt I could never be happy in a place with so little female company.

‘Our aim,’ he said, stooping low and seeming to flap his wings at me, ‘is to develop the mind and to turn out Christian gentlemen. However you may shine in your studies, you will be judged above all by the quality of your character. I hope, John Jameson, that you will not be found wanting in that respect, and that you will be a credit to your family.’

‘I will,’ I said. Then, seeing my father take up his hat in preparation for departure, a terrible sense of desolation gripped me and, in spite of my fourteen years and my sixty-eight inches of height, I allowed some tears to drop down my cheeks.

My father looked embarrassed, and Dr Lloyd somewhat taken aback. ‘Dear dear,’ he said. ‘I think a little firmness is called for now. A little manliness, too. This won’t do at all. No, no, not at all. I suggest you stop this now before the other boys see you or you will have no reputation with them.’

I was used to making efforts of will, and I made a supreme effort then, breathing slowly and drawing myself up to my full height. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry, Father. I’ll be strong from now on, I p-promise.’

My father came towards me. ‘Let me be proud of you, John. Let me have good reports of you in every way. Now, God bless you and keep you.’ And he pressed two half-crowns into my hand and was gone. I watched through the old-fashioned window as the pony and trap disappeared out of the gateposts, and Dr Lloyd, myself and the roaring fire were all that was left of my world.

Dr Lloyd then took me quickly up the stairs and introduced me to a boy of about the same age, somewhat shorter and plumper, whom he said was to be my ‘pair’. He was called Frank Haywood and seemed of a very amiable disposition. He, too, was a clergyman’s son, but had been at the school for two years already and had a fund of good advice as to the various ‘dodges’ it was necessary to employ in dealings with boys and masters alike. ‘If you are the proud possessor of a florin or a half-crown, I’d advise you to keep quiet about it,’ he said, opening the small bedside cupboard into which all my clothes were to go. ‘We’re all pretty skint at this time in the term and any new boy turning up is sure to attract attention as an easy source of revenue.’

I’d never heard the word ‘skint’, although I guessed what it meant. It was the first of many lessons I learned that day, not just about the prevalence of slang in the society of schoolboys, but also about the importance of keeping things to myself and not presuming on the good nature of others. ‘I don’t mind sharing what I’ve g-got,’ I said, conscious of my stammer and fearing he would mock me for it.

‘Well, Jameson, old fellow,’ he said, putting his arm on mine. ‘You may be ten feet tall, but you’re pretty green. It’s a good thing I’m here to look after you. You almost had Munnings as your study pair, but he’s a complete toad, and the moment I saw you get out of the pony-trap I gave him tuppence to swap with me.’

‘That’s very g-good of you,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ he said airily. ‘Although if you could see your way to giving me back the tuppence in due course, I’d be very obliged. I’m down to my last halfpenny.’ And he looked at me with a very comical face, and we both laughed.

‘Now for the clincher. Do you like riddles, Jameson?’ he said, sitting on my bed and taking a piece of paper from his pocket.

‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Riddles were a favourite family pastime and I warmed to the idea of starting out in my new friendship by solving this one.

‘This is an easy one. Why is a raven like a writing desk?’ he asked.

Why indeed? I cudgelled my brains for a good five minutes, but could not think of an amusing point of comparison. ‘I g-give up,’ I said at last, annoyed with myself for this failure.

He chortled, threw himself back on the counterpane and said I was quite right – as I’d have to be ‘raven mad’ to know the answer. I laughed too, knowing at a stroke that I had found a soulmate, and that my schooldays might not be as bad as I had feared.

I never ceased to long for home, but my experiences at the school were salutary in several ways. The main benefit, of course, was the advanced nature of the studies. There were two young masters newly come down from Oxford, who introduced me to mathematical concepts that my poor father had no knowledge of. It was exciting to discover the principles behind Euclid’s geometry, rather than merely learning them by rote, and I could not wait to be back at my desk each day, fathoming out new problems and solutions. Most of my classmates seemed content to go about matters in the old way, but I was fired with the joy of discovery and I was soon in high favour with my masters for going beyond the tasks they set me. It was comforting to hear my teachers speaking so well of me and knowing that good reports were going back to my father and mother.